


Scratch

by cjmarlowe



Series: Beyond London [2]
Category: Diving RPF
Genre: Britain celebrates bronze like it's motherfucking platinum, Canadians are a proud and happy people, Gags/Silence, M/M, Phone Sex, kink bingo, london 2012
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-16
Updated: 2012-08-16
Packaged: 2017-11-12 07:21:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/488207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cjmarlowe/pseuds/cjmarlowe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No matter what he told himself, Riley never really thought it was a one-time thing. He's not wrong. It doesn't happen the way he thinks it's going to, but he can work with that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scratch

Riley wasn't wrong about his hangover. He's already feeling it when he does the walk of shame back to the Canadian building at around seven o'clock in the morning, and because he's an idiot and doesn't take any aspirin and water before falling asleep again, when he really wakes up a few hours later he sort of wishes he was a little bit dead.

Lunch is an ordeal, not because he's not starving but because of _people_ and _noise_ and _more people_ and by the time he gets back to his room the idea of going to Olympic Stadium for the closing ceremonies is a little bit unbearable. Much as he hates to admit it.

He's counting on the fact that the party will be coming back to Athlete's Village afterwards, and that he'll be in a state to enjoy it when it does before he heads for the airport, and home.

He manages to sleep for another hour or so, this time fully drugged and hydrated, and when he gets up he slugs around his temporary apartment in his underwear until he has the brilliant idea to give out his soon-to-be-defunct phone number on twitter, just to see what happens. He's _that_ bored, and _that_ unwilling to go out and actually do anything.

What happens is a whole lot of text messages, a few awkward and tentative conversations, a quick meet-up with a few fans, and a voicemail from Tom Daley.

"What do you mean you're not coming!" he says, over the sound of loud conversation and cheering in the background. The British Olympic squad is in understandably fine form today. Riley's head hurts a little bit again. "Of course you're coming. Don't be a twat."

That's the entire message, and while mildly persuasive, when Riley thinks about going his entire body rises up in protest, from the clanging in his head to the sudden roiling in his stomach. He blames it on exhaustion from competing, but it's totally and absolutely a brutal hangover which he's sure has to be the result of mixing beer and shots because he was actually relatively sober by the end of the night. He's been much, much drunker than that.

He texts back "only if u want to see me collapse and cry like a baby on the field" and puts his phone down while he slowly starts packing up his things before the ceremony actually starts, because he plans to not have much time for that later.

Text messages are still coming in, even now that he's deleted the tweet with his phone number in it, but the next actual phone call is from Tom.

"You're seriously not coming," he says, before Riley even says hello. "You're seriously not coming to the closing ceremonies."

"I'm seriously not coming," says Riley, popping another aspirin. He thinks it's been long enough since the last. He's not particularly concerned if it hasn't been. "I'm going to watch, though. Smile at the camera for me."

They haven't talked since last night, since Riley crept out of his room while Tom was still asleep, open mouth and sprawling limbs Riley had to untangle himself from. But it doesn't feel as weird as he worried it was going to be. 

"I'm going to smile at the camera for everyone," says Tom, "but that's not the _point_ , is it?"

"Believe me, I will enjoy myself much more if I don't have to stand for hours in that crowd and smile and suffer through that noise," says Riley. And this isn't his first time at the rodeo. He's done it before, in Beijing, and he fully intends to be there in Rio in four years. In Rio, he intends to be the one with the medal.

" _Oh_ ," says Tom, like he's finally getting it. "You know, I'm feeling last night too, but you don't see me sitting around in my underwear playing Xbox instead of being at the _biggest celebration on the planet_."

He bets Tom isn't _feeling last night_ the way he is, but he doesn't doubt there is some small lingering effect. "How about you celebrate enough for the both of us?"

"How about I bring the experience to you?" says Tom. 

Riley is about to ask if that means he plans to hold his phone up for him while the Spice Girls are playing, but then Tom abruptly hangs up and he's left with a dead line. Riley's sorry if he's pissed off, but he's still less sorry that he's not there. Biggest party on the planet or not. And he hopes it's really _about_ him not being at the ceremony and not about him not being there this morning, because he'd figured it would be better than way but maybe Tom was expecting something else for what, if Riley remembers correctly, was his first time.

He pays closer attention to the slowing stream of texts, but none of them are from Tom, even if a few make him smile.

It's at least twenty minutes before the phone rings again, which was just enough time for Riley to settle in for the show.

"All right," says Tom a little breathlessly. There's a lot less background noise now and a bit more of an echo.

"Where are you?"

"In the loo," says Tom, "and I haven't got much time before we've got to go out there."

"Time for what?" says Riley, and Tom laughs at him.

"You're alone, right?" he said. "You haven't decided to have a party in your room with the women's gymnastics team or anything?"

"I'm pretty much exactly the way you left me," says Riley. "Tom, I'm sorry I'm not—"

"No, shut up, we don't have much _time_ ," he says. "Are you still in just your pants?"

Riley finally gets where he's going with this. He blames the hangover for how long it took him, but Tom wasn't exactly being _clear_ about it either.

"I'm pretty sure this isn't what the organisers had in mind for the celebration," he says. His legs have fallen apart, just a little, and he's not sure quite how or when that happened. 

"Maybe it's what _I_ had in mind," says Tom. "Really, it's your own fault anyway. Didn't you tweet that you wanted people to call you tonight? I'm only doing what you asked."

Riley's thumb is under the waistband of his underwear. He's not sure how that happened either. "You're not seriously going to do this right before you go on international television," he says. "You can't possibly be planning that."

"I'm not doing anything, but _you_ are," says Tom. "All alone in your little room. I bet it's what you planned all along. I bet you were going to wank in front of the television. I'm just making it a little easier for you."

Easier isn't the word that Riley would use for it, even if this so-far ridiculous conversation _is_ making him a little hard. "You wouldn't even know how to—"

"Are you thinking about me?" Tom interrupts him. "Are you thinking about me from last night, after you left that bite mark on my collarbone? You did, you know. If I pull my shirt down just a little bit, when the camera is on me, you'll be able to see. Everyone will be able to see."

Okay, maybe he knows exactly how.

"Tom," he says, but he's not sure how to finish that sentence. Especially when he pauses to imagine Tom's sweet mouth saying that while hiding in a stall in a hopefully-otherwise-empty washroom.

"Do you want to leave them on?" he says. "I've already made you come in your pants once. I could do it again." Riley's fingers are resting against the hard line of his dick, through the fabric, and he thinks about stuffing his hand inside. "Do you remember what it was like, when I was inside you?"

Every second of it. There is nothing about last night Riley does not remember. "I...remember," he says. "It was tight."

"Was it your first time?" Tom asks him, voice softening a little somehow. "I was imagining it was your first time, when I did it. Every time I thrust into you and got deeper and deeper, I was imagining that no one had ever done that to you before. That's what made it even better than sucking you off."

Riley wonders if it would be completely weird to finger himself while Tom's talking, then decides he doesn't give a fuck right now what's weird and what's not.

"Are you touching yourself yet?" says Tom. "I'm thinking about you touching yourself. I know what it looks like now, when you do, but even before that I used to imagine it. I've been imagining boys touching themselves for a long time."

Riley absolutely is, torn between pulling his underwear off for access, or leaving them on because that's what Tom wants. He ends up leaving them on, but as he spreads his legs wide and gets a hand in he's sure he's going to rip a seam. He doesn't care about that, either.

"Just me? Or other guys?"

"Lots of boys," says Tom, "but I haven't touched any of them yet. Just you."

Riley is totally okay with the mental image of Tom touching other guys; it happily coexists in his mental continuum of things that turn him on alongside Tom's abs and Tom's dick and the feeling of Tom's teeth on his back. And Emma Bunton.

"Are you touching yourself?"

"I don't _dare_ still turns him on. "You are, though. I remember what it was like to be between those thighs, to push them out wide, to get _in_ you. And now you get to do it without me."

"Not without you," says Riley, not even trying to form an entire sentence or even thought, as his slicked up fingers go deep.

"No, I'm right there with you, aren't I?" says Tom, sounding very pleased with himself over that. "What I'm really thinking about is sucking your dick, though. I've tried it before, put other things, big things, in my mouth like that, but it's not the same thing. I want to do that to you before you go."

Riley's free hand is on his dick now, slick but not as hot and slick as Tom's mouth would have been, and he balances his phone between his shoulder and his ear because he doesn't dare, doesn't _dare_ , put it on speaker. 

Someone knocks on his door, and Riley tenses up and bites his lip and pretends he's sleeping until they go away. He'd pretend he wasn't there, except he left the television on, and he looks at it and knows that somewhere, in that building, right now, Tom is on the phone with him. The doorknob rattles and he thanks _god_ he locked it, then the footsteps leave and he thinks he's alone again.

And all the while, Tom is talking at him. "I bet it would be hot and solid and slick in my mouth, I bet it would go deep. Would it go deep enough to go right into my throat? I hope it would. I want to feel you that deep in my throat, I want to suck you and lick you and _breathe_ you. I want to make you come so hard that you see stars."

Riley hardly makes a sound when he comes because he can't even breathe.

Tom knows, though. Riley swears he can _hear_ him grinning in the silence on the other end.

Finally he chokes in a heaving breath and pulls his sticky hands out of his underwear and gropes around for a towel or a tissue or _something_ because he is wrecked. He is a disaster.

"You have one hell of a filthy mouth on you," he says.

"I know, isn't it brilliant?" says Tom. "I've got to go, though. I've got to go now or they'll leave without me."

Riley was so near to getting caught he can still almost hear the footsteps. He hasn't even caught his breath yet. "You're leaving?" he says. "Now?"

"I've got to go," says Tom. "I've taken too long already."

"Good luck with your cold water, then," says Riley, and Tom laughs and hangs up without even saying goodbye. Somehow it's actually better that way. Riley is very good at visualising, and can imagine exactly what Tom is doing in that moment. He's so spent it doesn't even make his dick twitch, but it's a nice image all the same.

He tosses his underwear—two pairs in less than twenty-four hours, that's got to be some kind of record for him, but he doesn't even want to think about washing them right now—and hops in the shower because he kind of already smelled of sweat and sex before he started and now it's just unmistakable. That means he misses a few things, but the one thing he does not miss is the entrance of the athletes.

It's only the fact that he's still on a faint post-orgasmic high, even after showering, even after finding a clean pair of boxers and lounging in front of his television again, that he manages to be so patient. He waits until most of the athletes are in. He waits until he's sure that Tom is on the field.

"Payback is a bitch," Riley texts him, then immediately calls before Tom can even see it and get it in his head to not answer his mobile.

He thinks he hears "hello" but there's almost too much background noise to tell. Still, Tom did answer his phone. Others wouldn't have.

"Hey, Tom," he says, putting one arm behind his head. "Can you hear me?"

"I can hear you," says Tom, a little more clearly this time, like he's put his hand around the phone to muffle the crowd. "So you decided to join us after all?"

"In a way," says Riley, almost conversationally to start. "I want you to listen to me very carefully, Tom, because you're not going to want to miss a word of this. Maybe splashing yourself with cold water was enough for you before, but I'm going to bet that you were still half hard and thanking your lucky stars that it wasn't showing too much, and after about thirty seconds of listening to me it's going to be aching again. Because I'm thinking about all the things that I could do to you right now, if nobody was watching, and I'm going to tell you about them."

Tom starts to say something else, but Riley interrupts him.

"No, don't talk," he says. "Don't talk, because you know you can't talk in front of all those people and the world. And don't touch yourself because you can't do that either. Just listen."

He pauses, hears breathing on the other end of the line, just in front of all the cheering and laughing and shouting, and smiles and goes on.

"All those things you did to me last night, you know I want to do them to you too, right? I want to bend you in half and put your ankles behind your _head_ and fuck you so hard that we break the bed. I want to suck your throat and pinch your nipples and I want to leave a lot more marks than just a little red ring on your collarbone. I want to mark you up so hard people will be trying to read your skin."

Tom could hang up at any time. He doesn't.

"You don't know what it feels like, but you know it'll feel good. You've thought about it. Maybe you've even stuck your fingers in, thinking about it, wondering what it's going to be like." And Riley can't help but flash on what he just did, alone in his room, and his dick's starting to try to get hard but he's still too _spent_. "Maybe you've even tried other things, too, or wanted to. The things you put in your mouth, the long, wet, hard things."

It's right in that moment that he catches a fleeting glimpse of Tom on his television, live, phone to his ear and lips parted and looking distinctly distracted, even when one of his teammates shouts something in his other ear.

"Smile," he says. "You're on camera."

A moment later, allowing for slight delay, he can see Tom's breath hitch and his eyes dart around.

Then the shot cuts away but Riley doesn't tell him that, just keeps talking. "Has anyone ever sucked your dick, Tom?" he says. "Anyone at all? I've done it, gone down on someone. Have you ever had someone on their knees in front of you, mouth around your dick, eyes closed, sucking you off? I would do that. I would do that to you right now."

There's a choked cry on the other end of the line, almost inaudible over the noise, the sound of rustling fabric or wind, and then Tom's clear, panting breaths. It takes Riley a second to realise he's just made Tom Daley come in his pants in the middle of Olympic Stadium.

He lets Tom know he knows just by not talking, by breathing into the phone and by brushing his fingers over his own, just-barely-active cock and by making soft, indistinct noises.

"I can't believe you just did that," says Tom finally, breathless and almost inaudible.

"I can't believe _you_ just did that," says Riley. "I wish I could see you right now."

"Oh, thank god you can't," says Tom, all in a rush, like he really had been worried he was still on camera _and did it anyway_. Riley can't promise he's on no one's camera, but he can assure him it's not on the BBC.

"So, see you later then?"

"Oh, you'd better believe you will," says Tom, and hangs up. 

Riley can't tell if that's a threat or a promise, but either way, it works for him. The Olympics are nearly over and he'll be on his way back to Canada very soon, but maybe they can have one more night in London, and maybe that will be enough. For now.


End file.
